


Brimstone Garden

by pterodactyldrops



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: 30 day challenge, Addiction, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Love/Hate, Mages and Templars, implied one-sided Cullen/Inquisitor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4086826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pterodactyldrops/pseuds/pterodactyldrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elain is no mere Mage, but she returns to her Templar again and again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A collection of drabbles for the 30 Day Un-Love You Challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I was wrong about you

**Author's Note:**

> I thought it might be easier to collect all of these drabbles/short fics into one work. Apologies to any person who has received double notifications because of this.
> 
> Chapter titles will be the prompt given.

Samson holds his shield like a Templar. Elain spied on him once. He grabbed one of the Inquisition’s sunburst shields. He held it in his rough hands, calloused from years of usingswords instead of carrying them around like a showpiece or nervous habit. He tilted the shield down and away from his face.

When he caught her looking, he dropped it. Ignored her watchful eyes, just as other Templars had.

He stalks the hallways like a Templar. Boots clanking on the ground and eyes wandering to every corner. He smiles a little too when he sees her—just like a Templar back in Ostwick did. Just like Cullen used to.

Samson drinks his lyrium like a Templar. He stands across from her, hands gripping the iron bars that separate them. The bars that keep them safe from one another, the bars that try to keep them distant.

Samson rolls his shoulders. He hides the tremors that pass through his body. But he stands taller, tilts his head higher, as his body begins to betray him. Elain inches the vial closer. She waits, more patient than he. He lets out a growl, his hands dart out, and he takes what he wants from her.

His hands are wet and cold. Sweaty and shaking. He tries to pretend like he doesn’t snatch the vial like every other Templar Elain’s ever met. He tries to pretend like he doesn’t hunger and ache for that blue liquid. And she pretends like she doesn’t savor the feel of his fingers against hers, pretends like it’s her duty to give him his ration and not her _want_.

Samson pulls the cork. _Pop_. Wet and loud and obscene. He turn his head away like a Templar, shoulders hunched over and around the vial. Protecting or hoarding? Templars have done both to her. His lips wrap around the bottle and he swallows its contents whole, gulping, not leaving a drop behind. Greedy.

Sometimes Samson will bark orders at her like he’s a Templar. Faster, slower, _yesyesyes_ , harder, no, _listen_ , not like that.

Elain laughs at them, laughs at him. The Circles have fallen. The College of Enchanters have collapsed. No one orders Mages anymore, and no one leashes her. If she wants to take her time, bob her head slowly over his body, she _will_.

But when Samson kisses Elain, her breath catches and she returns again and again.

He doesn’t kiss her like a Templar.

He takes his time. He runs his hands over her cheekbones, her collar, her ears, smirking at her shivers. He presses his lips against her mouth. Softness. No hitched skirts behind statues of Andraste. No quick gropes between patrols. He traces patterns against her skin with his tongue, slowly, languid, tasting sand from hard riding and sweat from long journeys and all of it is sweeter than the blue he downed moments ago.

They are warm together— _hot_ and burning. He kisses her like he’s a man, not a Chantry dog, and they’re more than Heralds and Generals and Mages and Templars. And she lets him because he is a bundle of wants and desires that she clings to, and she lets herself be _his his his._


	2. You were right about me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-relationship, post-game.

“Do you think that’s  _wise_ , Inquisitor?”

It’s  _that_  tone. Clipped words. Sentences stopped sort. A slight, patronizing edge. A knowing look after every question.

Elain’s small hands grip the war table.

How was it that she had never noticed  _that_ tone before? It had been over a year since she took on the mantle of Inquisitor. Over a year since she had first met with her advisors. Over a year since she had collapsed outside of the Fade. And yet she had never noticed  _that_  tone until  _he_  had pointed it out.

Her knuckles turn white.

“I wouldn’t suggest it if I thought it was foolish,” Elain says, voice tempered and even.

“This may displease our Templar allies,” Josephine replies immediately, twirling her quill in her hand.

“I cannot speak for the Order,” Cullen says firmly. Then, a little bit more quietly, with a softness, an almost  _piteous_  look at the mage standing across from him, he adds, “But this does resemble favoritism.”

Elain bites the inside of her cheek. She has fought— _they_ have fought to make the Inquisition a place that welcomes all. A place for second chances. A place for redemption. Half of the markers on the war table represent that.

But as Leliana has reminded her time and time again, the Inquisition is not a charity. As Cullen insisted to her, the Inquisition is a sizable military force. As Josephine has lectured her, they all need to be conscious of their allies and the power they instill in the Inquisition.

Would lending aid to a handful of apostates really jeopardize all of that?

Elain tastes blood in her mouth.

Is this the  _wise_  course of action if it chips away at what the Inquisition has built?

“Perhaps you are right.” She forces her hands to unclasp from around the war table. She picks up one of Cullen’s little metal figurines. “We won’t supply the apostates,” she declares, placing the marker on the map.

“ _Wise_  choice, Inquisitor,” Leliana intones. “This concludes our business for the afternoon.”

_Obedient little mage_ , she hears  _his_  voice sneer in the back of her mind.

 

* * *

“That was badass, Cassandra!” Iron Bull roars. He claps the Seeker so hard on the shoulders that even her knees buckle.

“It was impressive,” Elain agrees, smiling at the two.

Cassandra wipes the blood off of her sword. It leaves a red streak on her pants, but she shrugs, and says, “It was necessary.”

“Necessary to cleave that guy’s head off?” Iron Bull asks. “More like  _awesome_.”

Cassandra’s lips twitch. “It was a bit…what did you call it, Inquisitors? Impressive?”

“You should do that again,” Iron Bull says as they head deeper into the Hinterlands, “Gets me hot just thinking about it.”

Cassandra and Elain both laugh. Elain turns to the Seeker. She touches the hilt secured on her own belt. With one tug, she could make her spirit blade appear. She says, excited, “You should teach  _me_  how to do that.”

Cassandra’s smile becomes stiff. The laughter leaves her face. Her eyes focus on Elain’s scrawny arms, her short stature, to the mud and grass stains on her cloak from being knocked over by their enemies when she wandered too close. Finally, her gaze settles not on the hilt secured to her belt, but instead to the staff strapped to her back.

“It is…difficult,” Cassandra says gently. “It requires strength. I’m not sure if your spirit blade—”

_Little mage_ , the voice mocks again.

“Never mind,” Elain grounds out. She picks up her pace, walks a little faster, leading them further away from the small villages and deeper into the Hinterlands. Iron Bull and Cassandra follow.

“Aw, Boss,” Bull calls out to her, “You should just keep with what you do best; those barriers save my ass.”

“Yes,” Elain says. She moves her hand from the hilt of her spirit blade, lets her fingers run across her staff instead. The wood is warm and supple. It’s comforting. But her fingers twitch and she wants to feel the cold, hard steel of her hilt in her hands.

She closes her eyes for a moment, then repeats what she’s heard Templars repeat dozens of times to her, “Mages are best used as support.”

 

* * *

Dorian stands near Elain. Skyhold’s library is small, but it feels most like home to Elain, and she suspects that Dorian shares the sentiment. He picks up a book from one of her piles, flips through it, and then tosses it aside.

“Why do you read this trite?”

She looks up from her reading. “Because—”

Because the books are interesting? No.

She draws her gaze towards the books that Dorian reads. Necromancy. Blood Magic. Demons. The  _forbidden_. Tomes that were locked away in the Circle, kept far out of the reach of a curious Mage. Dorian reads the types of books that even Enchanters couldn’t get their hands on. Dorian reads the type of books that Elain has only ever dreamed of reading.

She traces the sunburst symbol on the cover of her book. She knows the story of Andraste by heart. She knows every simple fire and ice spell, and she can weave both elements without a second thought. She knows the Chant of Light and could recite it in her sleep.

She knows that magic is made to serve man, not rule over him.

So why does she continue to read these books that hold no interest to her?

It’s what’s proper. It’s what’s expected of the Herald—of the Inquisitor. How would Mother Giselle react if she caught her reading a book on blood magic? What would Cassandra think? Cullen? She somehow doubts that they would accept her curiosity as just that. She doubts that neither one understands her nor Dorian’s unquenchable thirst for more knowledge.

She wonders if they would even be worried about her, and not just fretting over the  _Inquisitor’s_  reputation.

“Because—”

_Obedient little mage_.

Elain frowns deeply. She tosses her book aside and grabs one of Dorian’s.

 

* * *

“You missed our chess match,” Elain says. The Inquisition’s soldiers have filed out of the office and now Commander Cullen slumps in his hardly used chair. “Again.”

“I did?” He glances over his shoulder and out one of the few windows. It’s dark outside his tower. “I did.” He sighs, and runs his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, I lost track of time.”

His words do nothing to stop the well of disappointment in her stomach. She’s lost count of the number of times she’s walked into the Commander’s office like this. She shouldn’t be surprised. She shouldn’t be disappointed. She doesn’t even  _like_ chess, but she likes when Cullen stops looking at her like the Inquisitor and more like  _Elain_.

Those moments are few and far between, however. With every missed chess match, every dropped dinner appointment, every forgotten stroll around the battlements, it becomes harder and harder to stop her heart from cracking.

But Elain smiles like it doesn’t matter, and says quietly, “It’s okay,” even though it isn’t.

There’s no open chairs in the Commander’s office, so she perches on the edge of his desk. Her hips bump a pile of papers, and they both reach to steady them, fingertips brushing. Elain grins but Cullen blushes and looks away.

“I can wait until you’re finished,” she suggests. The hope in her voice makes her cringe. “I could come back in a couple of hours.”

“I will be working late,” Cullen says, pulling reports and parchments towards him, surrounding him, like a barrier to ward her off. “I wouldn’t want you to stay up. I’m sure you’re tired from your travels.”

“I could just stay here and work on my reports until you’ve finished,” she insists.

“It would be distracting.”

“A good distraction, I hope?”

“ _Elain_ ,” He sighs, rubs his face with his hands. “I need to complete my work.”

_That_ tone. The way her name drops from his lips. It makes the hairs on her neck stand on edge. It used to be from anticipation, from wanting to hear him call her something other than Inquisitor again and again, but now? Since  _he_  arrived, since  _he_  has talked with her, since  _he_  has pointed out  _that_  tone she’s not so sure that her stomach is squirming from anticipation. It’s something else.

She pushes herself off of his desk. “I only wanted—”

“We both knew that the world would not calm down because you defeated Corypheus,” Cullen says. He looks at her over his pile of reports. She’s sure half of them are regarding the agents she’s gathered, the skirmishes she’s fought, the refugees she’s talked to, the war she’s waged rift by rift across Thedas. “Despite what either one of us hoped or wanted.”

“I  _know_.”

His safe softens. Apologetic. Piteous. Like he  _knows_  what she feels, what she’s going through, what she’s been through this past year. “I’ll try to play chess with you tomorrow,” Cullen offers. “But I must work tonight. Captain Rylen—”

“I understand,” she says obediently.

 

* * *

Elain creeps into the dungeon that night.

She shouldn’t sneak. She shouldn’t hide in the shadows like an Apprentice scurrying out of a Circle dorm, winding her way through hallways and past patrols. She’s the Inquisitor. But she doesn’t want to be seen. She doesn’t want to have to explain.

“Hello, Elain,”  _he_ sneers.

The relief she feels at hearing Samson’s voice almost make her knees buckle. Oh, to not be imagining his timbre but to  _hear_  it, for the sound to meet her ears, for it to be a reality and not a poor imitation. His voice, his tone, his sneer—it’s been stuck in her mind for weeks now. It’s been a half forgotten tune that won’t go away. It has drifted in-between those quiet parts present in every conversation. It’s been a lullaby that won’t let her sleep.

His voice, his words—they’ve colored  _everything_.

“Surprised they let a mage like you wander around so late,” he comments. He looks down at his finger nails. Leans against the bars of his cell. He pretends like he’s not paying attention to her, not studying her, but Elain’s been watched by Templars her whole life and can tell when one is looking.

She sits in front of his cell. She crosses her legs and rests her hands on her knees. She keeps her fingers splayed, still, and wills her body to not betray any apprehension she feels.

“So why have you  _graced_ me with your presence?” Samson asks. Bitter. Sarcastic. Vitriol hidden behind a thin veneer of apathy.

The stones beneath her are cold. They chill her even through her thick mage robes. Yet her palms are sweaty.

“It’s late,” he says, a growl of frustration beginning at the back of his throat. “A man needs to sleep, you know.”

She watches him. He looks on, stares back at her, but his face twists. Samson is the kind of man who can’t keep his thoughts to himself. He can’t stay quiet. He can’t stop from getting under her skin.

But, Maker, how she  _wants_  him to.

“I—” She breathes in deeply through her nostrils.

The words will hurt to say. She knows they will. They will sting, but not because he will smirk at her in his triumphant way, but because they will be  _honest_.

But that  _tone_. She can’t get it out of her head. She can’t. Maybe speaking the words will help. And out of this whole damned fortress, Samson is the first one to  _listen_ to her.

“You were right about me,” she blurts out. “You were right—I’ve been an obedient mage.”

Samson tilts his head. Looks at her with curiosity. There’s no smirk. There’s no triumph. But there is a small, little smile that she can’t place, and it makes the bottom of her stomach drop out.

“I’m not so sure anymore,” he says.

“What?” she gasps. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” Samson laughs.


	3. This cancels out the hurt

“Looking for me?” Samson asks Elain.

She stops. Turns around. There’s the smallest of smiles playing on her lips, though her nose wrinkles because Samson knows he’s right and she _hates_ that smug look he gets.

She takes a step towards him. She doesn’t smell _nice_ —she’s not flowers and sunshine and other poetic shit like that. Elain’s been riding for days. Her clothes are soaked in sweat, her hair hasn’t been washed in weeks, and her robes are covered in mud, blood, and Maker knows what else.

But Samson stands still and sniffs the air like a hungry dog because beneath it all there’s that sickly, sweet stench that he craves night and day.

The scent is always stronger after she’s returned from travel.

She steps past him into the darkened part of the hallway. Out of sight, out of mind. She doesn’t look over her shoulder at him. She doesn’t wait to see if he’s following. They both know that he will.

Just as they both know that she rushed to Skyhold to see him. Just as they both know what will come next.

Samson doesn’t grip her hand. He doesn’t rest his fingers on the small of her back. He doesn’t cradle her waist or run his hands gently over her face or any of that other romantic bullshit he’s sure she’s dreamed of doing with _her Commander_.

When they’re out of sight, Samson grabs her ass. He hauls her _up_ and _close_ to him because she’s too damn short and he’s waited too effing long to not kiss her properly.

When Samson pushes his mouth against hers, he finds that her lips are already parted. He doesn’t need to run his tongue over the seam of her mouth, doesn’t need to coax breathy moans out of her, doesn’t need to do anything because she _wants_ him and he _needs_ her.

He knows why she finds him when she returns. He’s under no illusions. She craves the roughness. The realness. The unavoidable intimacy. After over a week of her playing the Inquisitor, he understands.

Samson wonders if she understands why he lets her use him. Samson likes kissing her. He enjoys the mewls she tries to hide. He relishes in the way her hips grind into his.

But none of it is what he _needs_.

He can taste it in her mouth, on her lips. Hell, he _feel_ it in his bones. His whole body throbs with every breath they come up for. The lyrium left in his blood sings in time with hers.

They are attuned. Like calls to like.

For the first time since she’s left, Samson feels it—that sense of power that begins to build at the back of his neck, makes the hairs there stand on edge.

“ _Yes_ ,” he’ll hiss with the taste of lyrium on her lips. _That’s_ what Samson needs. Not soft words, not longing looks, not hard kisses, but to feel _better_ than himself.

To feel _whole_ again.


	4. I need to want you

“I want you, I want you, I want _you_ ,” Elain whimpered, the words muffled beyond recognition, trapped in the space between Samson’s skin and her lips.

And Samson—Elain was sure he only thought that she was kissing his neck, lapping at his skin, biting and nipping. Not hoping and not wishing and certainly not _praying_.

But she was. If she repeated the words often enough, if she held them suspended in her heart, if she clutched to the prayer as tightly as she held onto him, they _had_ to be true.

She wanted to press her face against his linen shirt and not wish for the bite of cold metal. She wanted to feel coarse, dark hair when she ran her hands through his locks without trying to imagine golden, barely contained curls. She wanted to savor his low, rough timbre without replacing his words with a honeyed, Ferelden accent.

She wanted to stare into his blood shot eyes, unwavering, unblinking, unfaltering and not long for their color to be replaced with mud brown.

Samson’s hands were softer than what she thought Commander Cullen’s would be. She’d never—the Commander had never—he _always_ wore his gloves. Whenever they talked, whenever she would hang onto his words, whenever she would purposefully let their fingers brush, all Elain would feel was supple leather.

But Samson’s hands were soft and warm and they were _here_.

Samson laughed at her. Loud, harsh, but not cruel. “Say it again, girl,” he ordered.

“I want you,” she whined into his chest, eyes shut, hands balled into tight fists as Samson hauled her closer to him.

“Look at me when you say it.”

Elain glanced up at him. His eyes were narrowed. He kept his hands away from her, let his body hold her in place against the wall. His hot breath ghosted against her skin.

“I want you,” she repeated the words.

It was still a lie.

But Samson pushed into her strong enough to make her body burn pleasantly. He kissed her firmly enough to make her lips swell. He touched her hard enough to leave marks on her skin that would surely show the next day, but it didn’t matter to Elain because it made her moan _so loudly_ and in that moment she forgot all of the lies that she told herself every day.


	5. Author's Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author's choice. :) Prompt from [the_goddamazon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Goddamazon/pseuds/The_Goddamazon): Elain and Samson, the moment they first realize they're into each other and it's far too late for either of them to turn back

Samson thinks he knows what to look for.

A brush of fingertips. Wistful sighs. Wandering eyes. Templars were taught to keep an eye out for that shit in the Circles. Hold the leash tighter on the mages than the Chantry held their own. Physical contact was less of a concern than infatuation. Samson knows that the most powerful desire demons feed off of more than simple lust.

There’s none of that between him and Elain. They aren’t a match. They’re simple math. A tug here, a nip there, all taken in equal parts to give one another the same moment of respite.

Still, there’s parts that start to not add up to Samson.

When they meet in his cell, there’s that same heat, that same want. Her eyes dilate, hips swing a little wider, and Samson finds himself licking his lips. But sometimes she’s tired from traveling and sometimes he’s sick to his stomach from red withdrawal. There’s no release they can offer one another those nights.

She used to leave. For _months_ now she’s left, or he’s growled until she’d go, and he didn’t mind because he didn’t need a friend, didn’t need a lover. He needed an escape.

Lately, though, instead of snapping, Samson’ll lay his head back against his lumpy pillow and murmur, “Not today.” He won’t bark at her. Won’t be gruff. Just honest.

And lately, she won’t leave. She’ll sit in front of his cell. Legs crossed neatly, hands resting on her knees, shivering a little against the cold stone. But she doesn’t leave.

“I saw something interesting in Emprise du Lion last week.”

“Yeah?” Samson stares up at the ceiling, lying flat on his back.

“Icicles on statues.”

“Never expected to see _that_ there.”

“Yes.” Her voice takes that tone where Samson just knows that she’s rolling her eyes at him. “But these were…” Elain pauses and he turns his head to look at her even though it makes his brain throb painfully. “ _Titsicles_.”

He snorts.

Elain’s voice should make his headache worse. It should be annoying and grate on his last nerve. But it doesn’t and he almost starts to… _enjoy_ her presence. Enjoy her for more than a quick release.

Still. Doesn’t mean that they’re anything. They’re not even friends.

Dagna will chide Samson about the scratch marks on his back. She’ll click her tongue and complain. He finds himself smiling. _Smiling_. Not smirking. Not some half-crooked grin. Not a sneer. But a smile that makes the wrinkles at the edge of his eyes crinkle and stops Dagna from chastising him for a second.

Elain begins to bring him shit when she visits. Starts out small. An extra blanket when he complains about the cold. A book or two that he mentioned he enjoyed. She even brought him a sweet roll, which he scoffed at, but then ate anyway.

One day, she hands him a report. Updated locations on the Red Templars and their numbers.

“Won’t _your Commander_ be pissed that you’re showing these to me?” He asks.

She pauses. Eyes get a glaze over for a minute. It’s the only indication she ever gives that she’s working through a thought. That it’s not adding up. That it’s off or different.

When he reaches for the reports, she holds onto them. He gives them a little tug, and she looks up at him, startled, and says, “ _Probably_.” She lets go. He flips through the parchments, and she adds, “But they made me the Inquisitor and it’s my choice to give them to you.”

 _Yes_ , Samson decides, setting the pages aside, focusing on her face in front of him instead. _That’s_ what he finds endearing. Not some soft smile. Not her dark hair or full lips. But that she admits that she’s the Inquisitor and that she owns her choices. Makes those decisions her own. Embraces them. That’s more than half the leaders he’s worked under ever did.

But it’s _fine_. Samson can admire someone without falling for them. He can fuck someone without loving them. He’s not a starry-eyed, lovesick teenager lusting after some mage in a Circle. That was never him.

One day, he sees her training in the courtyard. The Seeker’s with her. So are a couple of Templars. Someone’s yelling instructions at her from the side—it’s not an unusual sight.

But Samson pauses to watch her. Not something he normally does. But he has a few minutes to spare and he enjoys the sight of her fighting.

Mages are good at war. Skirmishes, battles—they are damn usual in all of them. Samson realized that long ago. Anyone who says otherwise is full of shit. Mages can hold their own. Bandits, bears—they all burn the same way under a fire spell. But surround a mage by a Seeker and a couple of Templars? That’s when they begin to falter.

Samson doubts _any_ mage could continue casting through the kind of dispellment they’re throwing at her now.

The thing about Elain though—what makes his breath catch that day, makes him hold onto the fence harder, stare at her longer—is that when the Templars surrounding her dispel her enchantments, she doesn’t run away. Doesn’t give up. Doesn’t fall to her knees and wonder what to do next, lost without her magic, like he’s seen countless mages do before.

No, his Elain throws her staff to the side and launches herself full force at one of the men in full plate armor.

They crash to the ground. She bangs her small fists against his plate uselessly—except she does land a couple of good kicks that make the man behind the armor grunt.

“Fine, _fine—oww_ —you can _stop_ , Inquisitor,” the man says. “You’ve proved your point.”

Elain, face flushed, knees on either side, straddling the man, pulls off his helmet. Cullen looks up at her. There’s a proud sort of grin on his face like he thinks _he’s taught her everything she knows_ or some other bullshit like that. But she doesn’t get annoyed. Doesn’t even notice his grin—she’s laughing too hard. She also doesn’t notice how he’s starting to squirm underneath her, how his cheeks are turning an embarrassing red, or the way his eyes linger.

She doesn’t notice how _her Commander_ is finally beginning to notice that she’s a woman. Nice looking one at that.

Samson can’t sleep that night. Or the night after. Or for the rest of the week. His stomach weighs him down. It’s like a rock, bruising and battering his insides every time his eyes flutter close and he remembers her warm breath against his skin.

She’s not his. They don’t belong to each other. They’re not parts of a whole. Samson doesn’t want to own anyone and he sure as hell doesn’t want anyone to have that hold over him.

It takes a few days. Few sleepless nights. A couple of words exchanged, letters sent. Not that long though. Not long enough for the hurt to settle. Not long enough for sick hope to begin to crush him.

It’s true what they say—the Grey Wardens will accept _anyone_. Even him

He meets her in her chamber as soon as he gets word. It’s not usually where they end up, but Samson’s not here for a release. He’s here to try to let go of her before it even starts.

He hands her the letter. He’s not much one for words, but he says simply, “Thought you should know.”

Her small hands are gripping the parchments tight. They make the paper crinkle. Her eyes have that glazed over look. That _thinking_ look.

“I leave within the week.”

Elain’s good at hiding her emotions. She’s good at being closed off. Doesn’t let much in, that one. But her hands keep on gripping the letter tightly, and he thinks he sees her breath coming faster, and he shouldn’t give a shit but the part of himself that keeps on caring, keeps on betraying him year after year, situation after situation, wants to know _why_ she seems hurt.

“Can you stay?” She asks.

He snorts. “No,” comes his immediate reply, because he doesn’t want to spend the next six months or year or however long left he has to live sitting in a cell, watching her feelings finally be reciprocate by _her Commander_.

She takes a step closer to him. He doesn’t move back. Her hands grip the letter tighter. Shaking, almost.

“I’d rather you stay.”

“Bullshit,” Samson replies, because it’s easier than hope. It’s easier than the truth. She just wants to keep using him. A balm for her deep wounds. And that would be fine—he’d be _fine_ with it if it wasn’t for this damned sinking feeling in his stomach, if it wasn’t for how he’s let himself start to _feel_ for her in a way he never intended to.

She frowns at him. “It’s not _bullshit_.”

“Yeah?” He asks. “What’d you call it then? Cause it sure smells like it.”

“I _want_ you to stay,” she insists.

He looks away. Up. Around. Not at her. “I don’t see what you’d bloody want that.”

“Because—” Her voice sounds as tight as his feels, it sounds stuck and lodged and caught in her throat like his own is, “Because that’s how I _feel_.”

“Well, I feel like I don’t want to rot in a cell while you moon after _your Comm_ —”

She touches her lips against his.

They’ve kissed a hundred, a _thousand_ time before. Slamming their mouth against each other’s. Biting lips. Swallowing moans. Letting their tongues tangle. Heat, fast, just a way to edge a release out quicker, faster, sooner.

But Samson’s head angles slightly to the side and he feels his heart _flutter_. Not still. Not beat so hard in his chest that he’s sure she could hear it. It’s just a little movement, a sense of warmth that starts in his chest and radiates out, and it’s _soft_ and _enveloping_.

She pulls away slowly. She raises a hand, touches her lips that were just gently— _so gently_ —caressing his own. “I want _you_ to stay, Samson.”

His body is trembling. A sweet kiss. Barely a brush of their lips. It’s held more feeling than any of the times they’ve fucked and _that’s_ the thing that makes his knees feel like giving out. The concerned look, the worry, the way she seems just as unsure of _this_ as he does…it makes him scared, makes his palms sweat, but makes him hopeful. Happy?

“All right,” Samson exhales.

The bright smile that she makes causes a smaller one on his own face. “All _right_. I’ll choose to stay.”

It happened slowly.

Samson thought he had the signs memorized. But what he was warned to keep an eye out for, what Maddox wrote of in his letters, _nothing_ of that compares to the feeling he gets when Elain presses her lips against his again.

 


	6. Author's Choice 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another author's choice. :) Prompt from [the_goddamazon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Goddamazon/pseuds/The_Goddamazon): Oh no he's hot moment.

“What’re you staring at, _Inquisitor_?”

“I’m not staring.”

“Then stop looking.”

Samson wrings the rag he was holding. The water drips over his large hands, leaving clean tracks in the dirt. His shirt is wet. Was it the water or sweat? The fabric _clings_ to his skin in a way that makes Elain squirm, makes her toes curl in her boots, makes her want to run away and run closer in the same moment.

Her mouth feels wet. She swallows, licks her lips, and Samson smirks.

The water’s made his thin shirt transparent enough that she can see a clear outline of his broad shoulders, his wide chest. She can see a dark dusting of hair, see the way his muscles wrap around sinew and bone, see how white scars crisscross his body and _dance_ across his skin with every movement closer to her he takes.

Elain has no problem finding words. But her mind stalls, stutters, and stops, and the smug look on Samson’s face only gets worse.

“I don’t take orders from _Templars_ anymore,” she spits, repeating the words she’s spouted out to a dozen other times before. It’s nothing but a mantra now. A chant. Something to hold close and hide behind.

It makes it easier to ignore the way her mind is nothing but a blank slate, how she gropes for words and forces sounds out of her tight throat. It’s easier to ignore how her eyes stay trained on him and his _body_.

She didn’t _know_ he looked like that under his corrupted armor. She didn’t know he was chiseled under his layers of thick linen and leather, given to him to keep him warm in Skyhold’s prison. Elain didn’t _know_.

Samson takes a step closer.

Elain can smellhim. It’s not…pleasant. He doesn’t smell like the men and women she danced with at the Winter Palace. He smells faintly of mud and _rotting_. Is it from shoveling the stables or fixing Skyhold’s crumbling walls? The sun hangs high in the sky above him, and underneath the scent is a musk that Elain, to her utter embarrassment, tries to seek out.

Samson ducks his head. His face fills her whole vision—a face that, some mornings, she’s remembered faintly upon waking up.

“Maybe,” he says, eyes boring into her own, “You should make an exception.”

And she realizes, _I’m not looking because I’m not supposed to_. No, she thinks, she’s looking because she wants to.


End file.
